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LOLA SHONEYIN
LIKE SPLIT REED AT WATERFRONT
If there was ever a night
when waves reared enraged
but with sorrowful sighs
returned to sea's dark womb,
it was that night that we stood
together like split reed swaying
in warm sand. Lovers born at noon
splayed before the lust of an irreverent moon
that night when at first we stood bare-
footed on plastic chairs
cheering on money-jostling minstrels
who beat their guitars and strummed their drums
eyes lowered in homage to the belocked minter
of melodies from Trenchtown
And how they sang for us
spurred on by the feet that spun on every seat
turning us towards the path of all the good omens
we were destined to meet
and then we walked to the tips
of Yemoja's tongue, inhaling
the sweetness of her breath
wondering if she was
named Mary, in a former life
or Jane-Jezebel of Jamaica in death
before swelling into a pale
billow of smoke, now whirling around
the waists of lovers on the threshold of redress,
knowing, pushing, yet unimpressed.
Was it she who pulled us into that unlikely embrace?
Coaxing us together in her consummate wisdom
teasing the hesitant mortals who stood before her?
Or was it the constellation of comfort
that graced your face,
the oscillation of words choked on,
filling the air as gulls croaked on,
oblivious of stirrings of the waist
rustling purposefully like shuffled lace?
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